The Reason to Endure
by shrike868
Summary: Katniss, while reflecting on her past deeds, thinks she has no reason to press onward, to even live, until an unexpected reminder comes from family - family Katniss didn't realize she had. (This story parallels real-life experience with the sorrow of depression and the joy of reawakening. See the author's notes.)
1. No Reason

**_A/N: This story was supposed to be a one-shot, but it grew a little.  
_**

**_"Been there, done that." That's what I thought when I read about Katniss's mother in the first book. I've had people close to me that literally couldn't get out of bed for a long time. It's not laziness. It's depression. It's a disease. It takes more than chastisement and more than encouragement to get people with depression back on track. Ms. Collins had it right._**

**_This story begins five or six years after the Revolution. I tried to stay true to the story's characters, but I could fathom Katniss going through bouts of depression after everything that happened to her.  
_**

**_All rights to this derivative story belong to Hunger Games author Suzanne Collins._**

* * *

I've become my mother. I'm just like she was after my father's death. I couldn't get onto my feet if I tried.

My only thoughts are about the wake of destruction behind me.

_I killed you. And you. And you._

How many people are dead because of me?

Prim. Rue. Thresh. Madge. Cinna. Portia and her prep team. Mags. Wiress. Seeder. Chaff. The morphlings. Woof. Cecelia. Blight. Finnick. Castor. Boggs. Mitchell. Homes. Jackson. Messala. The Leegs. Darius. Lavinia. Her brother. The old man at the victory ceremony in District 11. Two others there that I never saw, maybe more. The woman in her Capitol apartment. Ninety percent of District 12. Most of Panem, for that matter.

Cato. Marvel. Glimmer. The girl from District 4. Gloss. Coin. Fewer regrets about them. But they're just as dead.

Several scummy Peacekeepers. No regrets about them. But human or not, they, too, are just as dead. I can't convince myself that they don't count.

Do Gale and my mother count? They might as well. I doubt I'll see either one ever again.

Peeta's leg is dead. Some of his brain is, too. He still has flashbacks, corrupted memories, and missing memories. He says he wouldn't change anything. I suppose that's because he was happy to get me when all was said and done, but he surely got a raw deal. I drift between lethargic, apathetic, depressed, and furious. I never sing, so he never hears what won him over in the first place. That's all that remains of me. I'm Peeta's entire family, and I amount to about half a person. I'm certainly not his better half. _Bitter_ half is more accurate.

Okay, I take part of that back. Peeta's family occasionally consists of three fourths of a person, but only when Haymitch is sober. That's happened only twice in the past six months.

Peeta says we should make another of me. Yeah right. That's the last thing he needs. He deserves more family than a fraction of a person, but only if new family members are more like him than me. It wouldn't work that way. The worst kind of weakness passed from my mother to me. I would pass it on to my offspring.

If Peeta hadn't claimed me, somebody would have claimed him quickly. It would still happen if he were free. If Delly Cartwright didn't have a true love of her own now, she would take him in an instant. If he didn't have to look at me or think about me, he wouldn't have the constant reminders that trigger flashbacks and nightmares. He could have a bigger family and spread the love around. He says he couldn't be happier, which is a lie. I think he could.

Peeta once told Caesar Flickerman a better species might inherit the earth. Maybe he's part of it. I'm a few steps back on the evolutionary scale. It's time for me to relinquish my claim.

"She's a survivor, that one," his mother had once said. Hardly. The only true survivor around here is Buttercup. He still has at least four lives left. I once thought I should drown that darn cat. But holding him under for an hour wouldn't have worked.

My humanity is gone. Yet another thing I destroyed. I'm half dead. I'd be better off completely dead. Peeta would be better off, too. Everybody would.

Could I convince President Paylor to order my execution? I doubt it. Not politically expedient. Probably not right, anyway, in her opinion. They say I'll always be a hero to most of Panem. They even say many people in District 13 hold me in esteem. I think "many" means "two". One of them only admires me for getting away with so much, and the other won't admit it publicly.

I still have plenty of enemies. No doubt a lot are in 13, who I repaid for their hospitality – such as it was – by offing their president. There are sore losers in the Capitol and maybe District 2. Maybe one of them could find me and bump me off. Today, if I'm lucky.

I can still set Johanna off. She would show up today, if I made her mad enough. Is there an axe around here somewhere that I could leave in plain sight? Maybe, but I'm not getting up to go find it.

Do I have enough pills? Maybe, but I'm not getting up to go check.

I sometimes make a mental list of all the acts of goodness I've seen. Most were wasted on me. I don't want to think about that. For that matter, I don't want to think about anything at all. I let the thought of all my sorry deeds wash over me, hoping I'll at least go numb.

There is no reason to endure.


	2. Company

**_A/N: It takes a lot to break depression. A lot of time. Medication, which sometimes doesn't work. But sometimes, something _BIG_ will do it._**

**_All rights to this derivative story belong to Hunger Games author Suzanne Collins._**

* * *

My cheek feels warm. So nice. I come out of my catatonia and try to absorb it. I reach up and discover something is on my face. A hand. As I roll toward it, I feel and hear a kiss on my other cheek. I suppose I could endure something like this.

"Katniss?" I open my eyes and see the sun has shifted. It's now late afternoon. Peeta's smile registers. The irritating kind of smile.

"Peeta, please. No surprises today."

"Katniss, please come downstairs. We have company."

"No. You take care of what they need and send them away."

"I can't."

"They've come to take me away. Good."

"No. They're not taking you anywhere."

"Bad."

"Wrong. Too good to imagine." He takes my hand and pulls me up into a sitting position before I yank it away.

"Don't irritate me like this!" I hear an unfamiliar chuckle at the foot of the stairs. A woman.

Peeta laughs. My glare makes him laugh louder for a second. That aggravating smile has steadily grown. My malaise is gone, darn him! He's not getting away with any more, though.

"You'll be sorry if I don't irritate you now. You don't want to miss this, and neither do I." I growl. "Okay then, you leave me no choice." He steps out the bedroom door, to the top of the stairs. "Please come on up!"

**_"Noooooooooo!"_** I'm on my feet. Darn him! He just won again. I dive back on the bed and pull the covers over my head.

I hear a bump on the stairs. Then a thump a couple seconds later. Bump, thump, bump, thump. Whoever it is can't climb very fast. Now, I hear lighter, quicker footsteps, which stop to wait for more bumps and thumps.

Now I'm curious. There's no avoiding it, anyway. I shove the covers off and sit up. They've reached the top. Peeta appears in the doorway and waves them toward him. His smile is now a smirk, and he's trying to suppress laughter. He has a tear in one eye. A tear? He's not laughing hard enough for that. What the …

A dark-skinned man appears, standing on the opposite side of the hall. He leans on a pair of crutches. One of his pant legs is tucked and pinned around a stump that ends a few inches above his opposite knee. He wears a patch over his left eye. A tear is running out of his right eye, down his cheek.

As Peeta enters the bedroom, the woman appears in front of the man. She is also dark-skinned. The whites of her eyes are red from crying. She steps a couple of feet into the bedroom. Who are these people? Something tells me I should know. They're remotely familiar, but in her gaze, there's something … intimate? I can't fathom this.

The woman chokes out some words. "Katniss … we've waited for so long, and finally … can thank you … for the love you've given us." I'm still stupefied. She takes another hesitant step toward me and then says the magic words, "And our daughter."

My jaw drops. Energy surges through me as everything suddenly falls into place. These are … **_Rue's parents!_**

I leap to my feet and bound forward. We collide at the halfway point and grasp each other tightly. "I've hoped this day would come! Thank you so much for finding me!" Rue's father shuffles forward beside us and releases his crutches. He puts one arm around his wife's shoulders and the other across mine, and he leans on us. For a few minutes, we just hold each other and let the tears flow freely. I hate myself when I cry. But for once, I let it happen. I don't have a choice.

We finally break the embrace. I turn to Peeta, who is standing nearby holding the crutches. He has been crying, too, but I take a pot shot anyway. "You dirty … unngh! Don't spring things on me that make me cry!"

"And miss your reaction? No! Besides, I live for your disparaging nicknames. What's an 'unngh', anyway?" We all laugh. More laughter comes from downstairs. More people? I raise my head in interest.

It hits me at the same moment Rue's mother says, "Come meet the rest of us!" Rue's sisters! I don't wait for anyone. I bolt out of the bedroom and leap to the bottom of the stairs. The girls jump back as I land.

They are gazing at me with an intense concentration. I've seen that same look before - on a young boy's face, in the hospital that was bombed in District 8. The five little girls I remember aren't so little anymore. The oldest is about sixteen. There's a sixth girl, who is only about four, peeking between two of her sisters.

She shouts, "Move, Violet!" and tries to wriggle past her sisters. Violet shifts slightly, and then the little girl bounds toward me and hops up into my arms. I don't have to squat to catch her. Amazing. One day, she'll jump around in the trees just like Rue did. She burrows her head into my shoulder and then utters, "I love you, Katniss!" And then the rest swarm me.

I'm still startled by the youngest girl's leap, but even more by what she said. She never would have known Rue. Why would she even care who I was? "Is she … always like this?"

"When it comes to you," the oldest replies. "We've all wanted this for so long, but we couldn't contain Aster when she realized she'd finally meet our grown-up sister."


	3. Perspective

**_A/N: One thing people with depression do is overlook the obvious. Self-worth is non-existent. External evidence of their worth simply doesn't occur to them, even if it's too noticeable for other people to overlook. Reminding them is seldom enough to make it stick with them again._**

**_I tried to show the contrast here by having Katniss forget, and be reminded of, a BIG indication of her value. It had to be something OTHER than being the Mockingjay, because I think she'd prefer to forget most of that.  
_**

**_All rights to this derivative story belong to Hunger Games autho__r __Suzanne Collins._**

* * *

I'm floored. _Sister_. They claim me as a sister? Even a daughter? I glance at Peeta, who is on the stairs with Rue's parents. Both our mouths are wide open. 'Sister' isn't just a term of endearment. In this case, it's a title of honor. I'm not even close to honorable. I finally blurt out, "You've … made me larger than life. I don't deserve this. It's my fault Rue-"

Rue's father interrupts me. "Don't think that. It's the Capitol's fault. President Snow's fault." I guess he's right. I did have trouble remembering who the enemy was, didn't I? "And off the record, nothing would have changed under Coin. We're proud to claim you. We happily tell people we have nine daughters."

Six plus Rue plus me equals nine? I mouth the word 'nine'. Had they lost another daughter I never knew of? Peeta shrugs. But then Violet, who must be about thirteen, whispers, "We count Prim too."

"It was wrong to separate the two of you," Rue's mother adds. Overwhelming. I have to sit down. I shed more tears as it all washes over me.

Little Aster finally gets to see one sister she would never know. Over time, Peeta has painted several pictures of Rue. The most fitting shows her sitting in the cleft of a tree with two mockingjays perched nearby on smaller branches. I can see that eleven-year-old Camas has Rue's chin, and nine-year-old Phlox has identical dimples on her right cheek. Heartwrenching. Peeta gets every detail in every painting right, every time. Darn his photographic memory!

In Peeta's most poignant portrait, Rue stands in a meadow smiling, holding a bouquet of yellow and purple wildflowers. A willow is the most prominent tree in the background. The floodgates open again when Aster starts to sing softly.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow …_

They tell me that was the only song that would calm her when she was a baby.

The family's hearts had healed a little through the years, and I imagine that's why Aster exists. Rue was front and center in so many memories, though, and those often couldn't be detached from the present. When one of her sisters did the same thing in the same way, which happened often, Rue was credited as a mentor. Aster asked to hear stories about Rue – and her grown-up sister. And to sing "her meadow song". _My_ song. She had known about me since before she could talk.

We soon sit down to a delicious dinner. Rich stew with venison and potatoes – along with cheese buns, of course, which are inhaled before I can claim a second.

Rue's family had been through the wringer during the revolution. It's a wonder they weren't singled out more for punishment, especially after the victory tour when Peeta and I put them farther into the limelight. But growing unrest kept the Peacekeepers distracted. Rue's father had lost his leg when the rebels in District 11 seized control of transportation - about the same time I was rescued from the Quarter Quell arena - and his eye when the Peacekeepers tried to retake it.

When I ask what finally brought them here, Rue's father says, "We've come to 12-H for a while. The doctors think they can fix my eye and get me a new leg." He nods toward his wife. "And cure Lavender's cancer." He places his hand on the shoulder of the second oldest, who is sitting on his right. "And Lilac's tremors." If I had known about those health problems, I'd have rushed them here if I could.

District 12-H, for "hospital", is a brand new community a few miles north of 12. The hospital there is a spinoff of our very successful medicine factory, which now creates wonder drugs. Some cure things that were incurable before the revolution. Others restore specific organs to full function or control the development of organs grown externally for transplant. They say that within two or three years, avoxes' tongues and voices will be restored routinely. If it had been possible before, what wouldn't I have given to hear Lavinia! I bet her voice was beautiful.

Hundreds of people from the Districts flock to 12-H to live temporarily for therapy and treatment. Patients have so much to gain that all are willing guinea pigs. Rue's family is no exception. Before now, though, they had sent friends and neighbors here rather than coming themselves, feeling that their needs were greater. I'd say otherwise. Without anyone saying so, I can sense they spread their share of our winnings and their book royalties around and then scrimped to get by on their own. They would never call it a sacrifice. Their beneficiaries insisted it was now their turn and had practically thrown them onto the train here.

About the book – three years ago, a doctor in 12-H and some colleagues elsewhere in Panem took it upon themselves to learn and publish everything they could find out about edible and medicinal plants - domestic and wild. They found many contributors, but they specifically sought out my mother, Rue's family, and me for help. I thought it was only because of our fame, until they included three fourths of our heirloom book of plants in theirs, in original form. Their book is _the_ complete authoritative botanical reference, hands down. People crave the information. Most say that friends and family would have stayed alive before the revolution if only they had known these things. Panem will be better prepared if history ever repeats itself.

The book was the inspiration for an arboretum near the hospital. Patients are welcome, even encouraged, to take live medicinal plants home with them. Doctors are still scarce, so for many in other Districts, the plants are a new first line of treatment for disease.

I used to think 12-H was only needed to clean up after me. When I'm in my darkest mood, I still do. In the last few days before Rue's family arrived, I simply didn't remember any of the rest. Not the book, not the arboretum. What it all made possible, especially the healing, never would be lost on Prim or my mother. They would be angry if they knew I sometimes lose the perspective.

Even if I can't always grasp it, humanity has found a reason to endure. 12-H embodies it. And Rue's family – _my _family - does, too.


	4. Refreshing

_**A/N: When depression finally breaks, rediscovering the basics is a joyous thing. It's a rush for the person experiencing it. From somebody else's point of view, though, it often seems sappy. 'Sappy' would never describe Katniss, but this experience is too emotional to avoid all 'sap'.**_

_**The fun part of writing this chapter was trying to recall all the things that Katniss and Rue ever knew or did. Getting it straight required a nice revisit to the books.**_

_**And yes – that loose skin on a turkey's head and beneath its beak really is called a 'snood'.**_

_**All rights to this derivative work belong to Hunger Games author Suzanne Collins.**_

* * *

Over the next few months, I have the time of my life. My new family is unbelievable. Getting to know each one of them is thrilling. The things I love to do become fun again – new again – now that I have partners.

With 12-H nearby, it's easy to get rubber surgical tubing, and we make some awesome slingshots. I swear Camas can hit a three-inch-tall object at thirty yards. Lilac uses the kind of sling that you whirl in one hand before releasing the projectile. She can hit a ten-inch-wide object at fifty yards so hard that the stone shatters. Flocks of scared birds scatter like an explosion when she hits their roosts. All the girls except little Aster can outshoot me, but she cheers me on almost exclusively.

Exertion brings on Lilac's tremors, though. When one occurs, we can only leave her on the ground while she shakes and twitches. It eventually stops, but it's scary to watch. The doctors believe she can be completely cured, though, and we all look hopefully forward to that.

We find late-season berries and plums in the woods. I've always thought of them as my woods, even when Gale had an equal claim. Now my woods and hills are my family's, too. I take them to the lake, where we catch fish, gather katniss plants, and even camp overnight once while it's still warm enough. I'm sore for two days afterward from carrying Aster piggyback. It brings back memories of Finnick and Mags, but thankfully, my sisters' enthusiasm offsets that pain.

Peeta does some shopping for us on the telephone, and we locate some suitable willow and birch trees. Soon, we all have good bows – some homemade, some manufactured. We turn several handy targets into giant pincushions. The girls are surprisingly good competition. There are some friendly disputes about who is best. I think I am until we are hunting one day.

Sage, the oldest, pauses in midstep, turns toward the tree to her right, draws, and quickly releases an arrow into its foliage. I hadn't seen or heard anything there. When she bolts toward the tree, I follow her there and start to look around at the base, only to realize she is charging onward past another tree in the direction of her shot. She reaches down at the base of a third tree, turns back toward us, and hefts a skewered turkey over her head. I am frozen in surprise, gaping.

She returns, smiling, as I silently mouth the word "how". "I saw its red head." Sure enough, it's a tom with a crimson snood hanging off its beak. I glance sideways and see that two of the other girls are … nodding? Still speechless, I point in their general direction, then toward my eyes, and then toward the turkey's tree.

"She can do it," Violet says as she shrugs. "I can see ripe apples that far away." I guess working in the trees must really sharpen their awareness of these things. My hunter's sixth sense doesn't extend to _this_. Astounding. The grooslings in District 11 don't stand a chance. The family – more likely, several families – will have some fine dining there.

We do well enough for ourselves here, though, with our hunting and our snares. My new father, whose name is Basil, acts like he has never seen meat in his life when we bring back fresh game. Back in the arena, Rue said it didn't happen often. That apparently hasn't changed until now.

Wild mockingjays are the only animals Rue's family has ever had any fondness for, which means Buttercup is a novelty. He, Violet, and Camas take quite a liking to each other.

I come home from errands one day to find Peeta and the girls with canvasses and brushes. Young Phlox has a good eye for shape and detail. It's clear that her painting was done by a kid, but one day, her skills will match Peeta's. The rest have more paint on themselves than their canvasses. Peeta is painting Aster's face.

I can't resist. I dip two fingers in the paint on Peeta's palette and then wipe them on my face to make stripes. I look at one painting critically and then utter, "Sssssssso priiiiit-_tee!_", hissing the 's', raising the pitch of the 'e', and clipping it. For the next hour, we laugh gleefully as we mimic the most hilarious Capitol accents, phrases, and made-up faces. Peeta and I know some good ones, thanks to Effie – though of course we don't reveal our source.

Though somewhat muted because of their ongoing treatments, Lilac and our mother have exceptionally beautiful voices. Violet's is becoming more that way as she grows. We teach each other our favorite songs. One night, while outside behind the apartment in 12-H where they stay, the family and I all sing together in a harmonious chorus, pausing when the mockingjays take a turn. While we sing one of my favorite mountain airs, one old bird actually sings tenor, along with our father, at the same time we do. How and where did he learn to do that?

We discover we've attracted an audience when a round of applause begins. Jaws drop in silent awe when the mockingjays sing – including me, _the_ Mockingjay, I think, although there is plenty of praise for everyone else. They deserve it more. Our impromptu performance continues well after dark, until everybody is too tired.

Sage, Camas, Violet, and I spend time in the arboretum. They recognize plants I don't, and vice versa. It's easy to see how they maintained their health - until they encountered things too big to deal with on their own. The plants bring stories about Prim and my mother to mind. As I gradually tell them, the ninth sister assumes her place in family history.

Peeta tells me privately that he has never seen me happier. I don't think I have either. I feel so – refreshed! He tries to explain how stark the contrast is with the day before Rue's family arrived. Peeta had talked to Dr. Aurelius the day before that with concern. Though Dr. Aurelius asserted I wasn't in any real danger and my current medication would improve my outlook, he had said that doing something unexpected to boost my mood would be the best medicine. The visit was fortuitous, in that way. Despite a crowded house and full days, Peeta and I find time to renew our love alone.

Treatment works. Lilac begins to go for days, and then weeks, without any seizures. Our mother becomes more energetic, and her voice becomes more resonant and full. Our father's vision sharpens as he adapts to his new eye. Peeta coaches him about how to manage his new prosthetic leg.

A few days before they depart, a snowstorm hits. The girls have never seen snow before. We pelt each other with snowballs, roll around in it, and build a snowman. Lilac tucks a scarf around its neck. When standing back to look at our handiwork, someone remarks that the scarf looks like an ascot. Oops. Bad symbolism. I admit aloud that I've seen an ascot only once – and President Snow was wearing it. We all rush to the snowman, knock it down, and break it into small pieces.

Parting is bittersweet. Peeta sends a present home with them – a family portrait with all nine daughters. Needless to say, they will treasure it. Our mother chides him a little about not including her son-in-law, but she recognizes that the painting is a piece of him. After hugs and kisses all around, I promise to visit them in District 11 if I'm ever granted permission. As they stop at the door of the train, they all turn back toward us in unison. Peeta and I see it coming. Simultaneously, we all raise three fingers of our left hands to our lips and then hold them out to each other.


	5. Value and Family

_**A/N: There's no telling what clinically depressed people think about their experience when the depression breaks. Often, they still live life in a state that is always less than happy. Hopefully, though, they gain a little more perspective through therapy - and then when they take the time to think about things.**_

_**In the books, Katniss's snap judgments are erratic. But when she takes the time to think things through, she comes to the right conclusions. After being inducted into Rue's family, she has a lot to think about. I hope I've come up with a conclusion that is true to her character.**_

_**All rights to this derivative work belong to Hunger Games author Suzanne Collins.**_

* * *

I still have difficult moments and difficult days, but my depression never again falls to the same depths and stays there.

Getting to know and bond with the family I never knew I had is life-altering. This story is too big not to have a moral. There are two components to it – _value_ and _family_.

People say every individual has intrinsic value. I'd thought all of my value was earned – and therefore temporary. But in the end, I suppose I have to concede the point.

During the Games, my value was minimal. I was a cheap piece of expendable entertainment that miraculously didn't get expended. By that standard, so was Rue. Technically, so was Prim. It was her name that was drawn, after all. But I never felt that way about either one of them.

When Rue showed me the tracker jackers, her value to me certainly went up, but I can't say it went up by half. She had most of her value all along, and not because of anything she did. And I never weighed Prim's value against mine for a second when I volunteered.

During the revolution, I was valuable until I wasn't needed any longer. Then I became a burden, a messed-up girl who needed to be removed from society. But people who lose their minds are still fed, clothed, and housed. I had thought I was given those things only because I'd been the Mockingjay. But if someone previously unknown had assassinated Coin and was found to be insane, he or she would still have been fed, clothed, and housed. Under Paylor's government, anyway.

Rue and Prim had value that I never questioned. They still have it, and they always will. But it works the other way, too. At least in District 11, there are people who don't question my value.

Peeta says the people who still hold me in esteem feel exactly this way, even though I regret some of my deeds and will never be the best person in the room. He says the deeds I've done unquestioningly – feeding my family, volunteering for Prim, those that Haymitch and others listed in 13 - prove that it's intrinsic value. He says I have such a strong effect on people because that value is exceptionally high. I'll never believe that part, but I catch myself believing the first part once in a while. I'm proud that I fed my family. I _am_ a survivor. I guess those two things are intrinsic.

I still think Peeta is wrong about one thing, though. I could easily change the way strangers assess my value. I certainly did when I killed Coin. Enough strangers still value me, though, that I wonder sometimes if it wouldn't be as easy as it seems. Peeta thinks it won't change.

Nevertheless, a select few will never question my value. Peeta won't. My brand new family won't. I couldn't persuade them otherwise. At least two other people feel the same way about me – Haymitch and Johanna. Several who are now deceased did – Madge, Cinna, Finnick, Boggs. I feel the same way about all of them. The bonds we formed are unbreakable. The only word I can think of that fits these people is _family_.

_Love_ isn't the right word. It often is part of the bonds and their permanence. That's certainly the case with Peeta and Rue's family. But some kinds of love are transient. The word has too many definitions. And when it comes to Haymitch, I wouldn't call it love.

_Friendship_ fits sometimes, but it, too, is transient. It isn't strong enough by itself to make the bond permanent. If Johanna was nothing more than a friend, one of us would have killed the other by now.

_Need_ is also the wrong word. Needs are also transient. Gale and I ceased to need each other.

Each of these permanent bonds – these _family ties_ - is unique. Each has its own interface, its own set of rules, its own terms. And no matter how strange its terms are, it carries a cyclic obligation. You give help. You support, you sustain. You keep living it in honor of the deceased.

You accept it whenever it comes back to you, in whatever form it does. Eventually, one of you will use it to rise from adversity or misery. It may even save a life when it happens. Even if you forget about your own, you remember the others' intrinsic values. If they forget about their own, you find a way to make them remember. They will make you remember your own before long.

Sometimes, you get surprised. You learn who is (or is not) part of your family. You learn more family exists than you thought, that the family ties already existed. You learn you have unknowingly fulfilled an obligation, or that you need to fulfill one.

You keep passing the substance of the bond back and forth, or onward within the group, as the case may be. You do it quickly, because one of you may need it quickly. When you keep the cycle going, you are not just half a person. You are whole.

And woven into all of this, you'll find the reason to endure.


End file.
